Stuart Woods: Iron Orchid

“You may go in now, Mr. Kinney,” Parker said.

Kinney stood up and tried to figure out what to do with his briefcase and the coffee in his hand. He set the coffee on her desk and walked into the Oval Office.

William Henry Lee IV, president of the United States, stood up to greet him. “Good morning, Bob,” he said, extending a hand.

Kinney shook it. “Good morning, Mr. President. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Lee waved him to a sofa and took a chair opposite him, while Cora Parker set down Kinney’s coffee on a table next to him.

“Well, events move quickly sometimes,” the president said. “Once again, my congratulations on wrapping up the Fay affair so well.”

“Thank you, sir.” Kinney didn’t bother with any self-deprecating talk about the teamwork involved, since he considered himself principally responsible for the outcome.

“Anything new on the search for wreckage and a body?”

So this was why he had been called over here, Kinney thought. “The Coast Guard has found numerous pieces of the wreckage, none bigger than the size of your hand. It was, apparently, a very powerful bomb. Chances are, the body is in pieces just as small and is fish food by now, so there’s not likely to be an autopsy.”

“Bob, I’d like you to be the new director of the FBI,” Lee said, “effective immediately.”

Kinney tried not to choke on his coffee. “Sir? Is James Heller ill?”

“If he says he is. Figuratively speaking, he’s dead,” Lee replied. “I accepted his resignation five minutes ago for personal or health reasons. Whatever he decides. He’ll be out of the Hoover Building inside of an hour.”

“I see,” Kinney said.

“Do you accept?”

“Mr. President, I’d like to know what my brief as director would be.”

Lee gazed at him. “To shake the organization to its roots; to improve every facet of its operations, particularly criminal and terrorist investigations; to build bridges to the CIA and other intelligence organizations; to change its self-serving and standoffish culture with regard to those organizations and law enforcement agencies all over the country; to weed out the deadwood and promote the able. I think that about does it. Sound familiar?”

Indeed it did, Kinney thought. It was virtually a quote from a memo the president had recently asked him to write to him. “It sounds very good, Mr. President. I’d be honored and very pleased to accept.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Lee said. “I’ll be issuing a formal appointment today, and someone will be in touch to iron out the details. One other thing: in view of the constant threat of terrorist attack, I want your first order of business to be a thorough review of the Bureau’s own security, both in Washington and at every field office. I want it strengthened, where necessary. And I’ve decided that the director should live in secure government housing, so someone will be discussing a few choices with you. I hear you live in some awful bachelor digs, anyway, so I’m sure you’ll enjoy the change.”

“Thank you, sir, I’m sure I will, especially since I’m planning to be married very soon.”

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Her name is Nancy Kimble. She lives in Chester, South Carolina, and I met her when I went down there to investigate Fay’s murder of Senator Wallace.”

“Oh, the innkeeper you were bunking with?”

Kinney blushed. “Sir?”

“Relax, it was in your file. I think Heller took some pleasure in noting it.”

Kinney gulped. “I see.”

Lee shrugged. “Everybody’s entitled to a sex life, but don’t quote me as having said that; I’d be explaining for weeks.”

“Of course not, sir.”

Lee slapped his hands on the arms of his chair and stood up. “Well, why don’t you and I take a stroll down to the White House Press Room and surprise the boys and girls with an announcement, then you can get back to the Bureau and move into your new office.”

Kinney stood up and grabbed his briefcase. “Yes, sir.”

They walked out of the Oval Office, and Cora Parker snatched Kinney’s coffee cup as he passed.

“By the way,” the president said as they walked down the hallway, trailed by Secret Service agents, “I hope you’ll make a special effort to get along with my wife.” Katharine Rule Lee was the director of Central Intelligence. “Because if you don’t, there’ll be hell to pay at home.”

“I’ll do my very best, sir.”

“See that you do.”

The president’s press secretary fell into step with them, and they continued on toward the press room.

Kinney couldn’t wait to call Nancy.

TEDDY FAY WALKED OUT of the Algonquin Hotel and greeted the brisk new day. He hailed a cab. “Take me uptown on Madison,” he said to the driver. When they had reached 63rd Street, he told the driver to stop, and he walked across the street to a branch of the Bank of New York. A guard directed him to a desk at the rear, and the young woman behind it stood up to greet him, introducing herself.

“I’m Albert Foreman,” Teddy said, seating himself beside the address. “I’d like to open an account.”

“Certainly, Mr. Foreman,” the woman said, then began producing an application and signature cards. “Are you new in town?”

“Yes, I just arrived last night, from Chicago. I’ve sold my business and retired, and I thought I might live in New York for a while. I’ve always loved the city.”

“Welcome to town,” she said. “How much would you like to deposit?”

Teddy handed her an envelope. “Five thousand dollars,” he said. “I’ll be wire-transferring a larger sum as soon as I have an account number.”

“Here are some counter checks with your account number,” she said, handing him a packet. “Where are you living?”

“At the moment, I’m at the Algonquin, but I’m on my way to do some apartment hunting right now. I’ll call you with the address when I’ve found something.”

“Fine. Everything is in order. You may begin using your account immediately.”

Teddy thanked her and left the bank. Outside, he used his cell phone to call a number he had memorized.

“This is Mr. Allen,” a voice said.

Teddy gave him his account number.

“Password?”

“Cayuse.” He spelled it.

“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”

“I’d like to wire two hundred thousand dollars to the following account number at the Bank of New York.” He read the number and the routing number, and Allen repeated it.

“And your transfer password?”

“Old Paint.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll wire the funds immediately; they’ll be in New York within the hour.”

Teddy thanked him and hung up. He walked along Madison for a few blocks and went into a real estate office where he had made an appointment earlier, by phone.

“Good morning, Mr. Foreman,” the agent said. “I’ve arranged viewings of three apartments that would seem to meet your requirements. The first is just around the corner.”

He followed her to 610 Park Avenue. “This was formerly the Mayfair Hotel,” the agent said, “and it was converted to condos a few years ago.”

Teddy had requested a condominium building, since he did not want to wait weeks for the board of a co-op building to investigate him. A condo board would only want a credit report.

“It’s a full-service building; the restaurant, Daniel, is on the ground floor and provides room service.” They got onto an elevator and emerged on a high floor. “I sold this apartment three years ago, and my clients have gone on a round-the-world tour for a year, so the apartment is available for that time.” She unlocked a door.